


Planting Seeds

by MandalaRose



Series: Stay With Me [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: #BLACKLIVESMATTER, About themselves and their privilege, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst relating to real-world events, Black Lives Matter, COVID-19, Depression, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Firefighter Dean Winchester, Graphic depictions of real-world violence, Grief, Heavy Angst, Institutionalized Racism, M/M, Murder, No Fluff, Our boys come to some very difficult and uncomfortable realizations, Pandemic - Freeform, Police Brutality, Protests, Quarantine, Racism, Teacher Castiel (Supernatural), Therapist Missouri Moseley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:15:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24888991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MandalaRose/pseuds/MandalaRose
Summary: Protests rock the country and Black voices rise up to demand justice centuries denied in the days following the murder of George Floyd by four Minneapolis police officers. Castiel and Dean struggle to confront their own privilege and participation in systemic racism as they seek to find their places in a revolution.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Stay With Me [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1479386
Comments: 75
Kudos: 215





	Planting Seeds

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, dear friends.  
> I hope this latest installment finds you safe and well. I, like many of you, have spent the past weeks listening, learning, and having difficult conversations both within my own soul and with those around me.  
> As a white, straight, cisgender woman I have had much to pull apart, analyze, and grapple with in terms of confronting my own privilege. One of the issues I have grappled with, though it may seem an exceedingly minor one comparatively, was the decision of whether or not to write this time stamp. Though I know some may have concerns with the use of fan fiction to address a topic of this gravity, the use of familiar and beloved characters as a lens for viewing and subverting the harmful, unjust, and evil institutions within our own society is one of the things I love most dearly about transformative fiction. Fan fiction is truly the subversive literature of our age.  
> Having already established this storyline and these characters as being set within our own world or one very similar with my previous quarantine time stamp, it felt like a disservice to both my readers and my characters to address one deadly and pervasive disease being battled by our world right now while ignoring another. So, while I questioned my ability to adequately address such a profound topic in light of my own privilege and limited experience, I felt my silence would say things far more harmful than my words.  
> I don’t think I need to tell you this story is not a feel-good tale of domestic Destiel bliss. It does end on what I would like to believe is a hopeful note, but that in no way diminishes the weight of the content within. Please heed the tags. This story will contain graphic descriptions of real-world violence. Every violent act depicted in this story is one that I have watched play out in videos of the events unfolding in our world over the past few weeks. It is likely you have seen them too. Please practice good self-care.  
> A special thank you to [followyourenergy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/followyourenergy/pseuds/followyourenergy), [MalMuses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses), and [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz) for their support and guidance in the creation of this story.  
> All my love,  
> M
> 
> _“This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal.” -Toni Morrison_

**Monday, June 8, 2020**

Standing wearily before the bathroom mirror, Cas frowns at his haggard appearance. Taking in slightly bloodshot eyes haloed by dark circles, he runs a hand over the unruly scruff covering a jawline noticeably softer than he’s accustomed to. And speaking of softer…He pokes at the rapidly expanding pudge of his stomach where it bulges slightly against the elastic of his flannel lounge pants. It’s a good thing he never puts on real pants anymore.

Two months of quarantine (and its accompanying anxiety-induced binge eating) have not been kind to his physique. His softening muscles and that faint trace of a double chin when he tucks his head down are made all the more frustrating by the fact that he’d just finally been looking and feeling more like his pre-accident self when the gyms had suddenly closed. Having finished PT at the end of the summer, Cas had transferred his three days a week at the therapy center to three days a week at the gym. He’d even begun working his daily runs back in on his non-gym days, though they’d started out as daily walks instead.

Since COVID-19 descended upon them he’s still been running outside when he can, but it’s not always possible. With daycares being closed, he has to work around Dean’s work schedule and the last thing Cas is going to ask his amazing boyfriend to do after he comes home exhausted from a twelve-hour overnight shift is ask him to watch their daughter so he can go for a jog. It’s not that Dean wouldn’t do it, of course. He absolutely would and that’s why Cas won’t ask.

Unfortunately, his occasional runs haven’t been enough to balance out his far more than occasional carbohydrate binges and it’s demoralizing to watch all of his hard work slowly fade away in the mirror. After months of rebuilding muscle and relearning his limits, he’d finally reached a place of comfort in his new body. He still couldn’t push as hard or run as far as he’d been able to pre-accident, but he thinks that should be expected. After all, even though it may still function afterwards, something broken and repaired never goes exactly back to the way it was.

Cas is fairly certain that despite all of his PT and his careful positioning with pillows to keep his hips in alignment while he slept, his left leg still managed to heal a little off. There’s a new tension in that limb, like a rubber band pulled taut, along with a twinge when he pushes himself that reminds him his body isn’t the same. Of course, a lot of things about him aren’t the same, he acknowledges as he catches sight of the framed photo sitting on the dresser—the one of him, Dean, and Claire drinking hot cocoa in front of their first Christmas tree. It may have taken a lot of pain to get here, but it was worth every moment.

If there’s one thing Cas has learned from his various therapies over the past year and a half (both physical and psychological), it’s that healing can be a painful process. Sometimes you have to poke at the sore places, or even tear open old wounds, in order to treat the underlying pain. His accident and all that came after had certainly brought a lot of old pain to light for Cas, but he’d do it all again if he knew he’d end up where he is now.

Well, maybe not  _ exactly _ where he is now. Leaving his and Dean’s bedroom, he spots the hallway wall still bearing scribbles from the day Claire had managed to find one of his pens and create her own masterpiece while Cas was in a Zoom staff meeting. He sighs.

Beyond their new toddler art gallery, he can see the rest of their apartment, thanks to its open floorplan. The living/dining area and kitchen are all strewn about with toys Cas lost the will to return to the bin currently lying on its side days ago. He’d gone from picking the toys up every few hours, to every evening, to at least a couple times per week as the quarantine wore on, but at this point he’s pretty sure Ollie the Elephant’s head has been sticking out from beneath the refrigerator for a solid week and a half.

Working from home with an active two-year-old underfoot has been…challenging, to say the least. There really isn’t anything quite like a very demanding toddler pulling on your arm in the middle of a video meeting while shouting, “Da-ee, I pooped,” at the top of her lungs. And when she’s not embarrassing Cas in front of students (and their parents), Claire is into  _ everything _ . In addition to her hallway artwork, she’s learned how to open doors now, meaning nowhere is safe. They added child proof doorknob covers to all the doors, of course, but not before Cas had been forced to clean up an entire unraveled roll of toilet paper and found his keys in the toilet.

The refrigerator had been another adventure. It now has a lock, after Cas had discovered Claire standing on her bathroom step stool in front of the open door, happily snacking on a stick of butter. The fruit bowl now lives on top of the refrigerator and they’ve packed away so many things from curious toddler fingers that were it not for the never-ending flood of toys covering every inch of their apartment, it would look unlived in.

And yet, even with all that, Cas still feels guilty for the amount of time Claire has spent parked in front of the TV, cartoons being the only thing that holds her attention and stills the destruction long enough for him to get any work done. Toddlers are meant to be interacting with their caregivers, playing and learning all day, not sitting in front of a screen, he knows, but for the past two months, Claire has learned far more from Team Umizoomi and Blaze the Monster Truck than from her teacher father.

The only reason she’s not here right now is because Dean offered to take her to the park, after promising that they would only stay and play if there weren’t a lot of other kids there. Running tired fingers through his hair, Cas thinks wistfully of the house listings he and Dean have been viewing online. A yard big enough for a swing set is one of their non-negotiables in the search for their first home.

Sitting down in front of his laptop at the corner of the dining room table he’s used as a makeshift workspace for the past quarter, he blinks at the upside-down pink doggy staring at him from the table’s center. Space for an office is another non-negotiable. Unfortunately, until the restrictions ease enough for them to feel comfortable taking Claire and touring other people’s homes, they won’t be making any offers, no matter how tempting some of those listings are.

No matter. For the past two weeks, buying a new home has been the furthest thing from Cas’ mind. In fact, for the past two weeks, most of Cas’ COVID-19 related woes have been muted, a dull drone in the back of his mind instead of the shrieking headliner they had been.

Because two weeks ago, four Minneapolis police officers murdered George Floyd in broad daylight.

In the days following George Floyd’s murder, protests had erupted first across their country and eventually throughout the world. Cas has watched countless videos of the protests. He has heard the pained screams and pleas of Black people across the nation as they issue calls that are half mournful lament and half rallying cry. “We can’t breathe,” they cry out and the raw anguish he hears in their voices tears at his soul. He’s never heard a pain like that before. How anyone could hear that and hear only anger, hear only the words being said while ignoring the soul-deep fear and grief beneath is simply beyond him.

He’s watched hours of video footage showing incident after incident of police brutality. He’s seen bodies—Black, brown, and white—beaten and bloodied by hands meant to protect and serve. He’s watched police in riot gear fire tear gas and rubber bullets into peaceful crowds. He’s seen civil disobedience countered with violent force. As time has gone on, he’s even watched videos of police attacking silent, kneeling protesters who weren’t breaking any laws, civilly or otherwise.

The images play on repeat behind his eyes.

_ A Black couple, tazed and pulled from their vehicle before even being given a chance to get out on their own, the driver still wearing his seatbelt. _

_ A seventy-five-year-old white man, knocked to the ground, the blood from his head spreading across the concrete. _

_ A Black college student, dragged away from his friends and pulled behind a barrier of shield-holding riot police for the apparent crime of kneeling in a public park in the middle of the afternoon. _

_ Water bottles and tires slashed by the people who are supposedly using this level of force to prevent destruction of property. _

_ Protestors penned in on a bridge and then fired upon with tear gas and projectiles as a police officer tells them over a loudspeaker that no one is going to be hurt. _

One night, after tucking Claire into bed, he and Dean had watched a local protest, streamed live on Facebook. They’d watched as the protestors had finished the peaceful march, joined by the sheriff and some of his force. They’d watched as a group of the protesters had refused to leave afterwards, engaging in civil disobedience by kneeling in the deserted roadway as the sheriff ordered them to disperse.

They weren’t violent. They weren’t destructive.

They were peaceful and persistent.

Even when the riot officers showed up.

Even when they formed their line.

Even when they lowered their gas masks.

Huddled around Cas’ laptop on their bed, he’d grabbed Dean’s arm as a familiar face appeared on the screen, lightly tanned skin surrounded by an avalanche of curly brown hair. Kaia.

Kaia Nieves is one of Cas’ students and a member of the GSA he still co-sponsors with Charlie. She’s even babysat for him and Dean several times. Claire had been enamored with the gentle, soft-spoken girl immediately, following her from room to room, babbling and looking immensely proud of herself as Kaia cooed encouragement.

Kaia just finished her junior year, her smiling face waving goodbye to Cas during their final Google Meets session three days before George Floyd was murdered. Three days before the shy, reserved girl he remembered from class became an agent for change in their world.

He’d watched her on that video, dressed all in black and standing in a long line of protestors, chin raised, eyes fierce and defiant, no trace of the bashful child he remembered from the classroom. His pupil found a steel inside of her that he wondered if even she knew was there. He’d caught glimpses of this side of her before, whenever someone at one of their GSA meetings shared a story of the discrimination or mistreatment they’d faced, but he’d never seen it in full force until that evening.

Cas had never been so simultaneously proud and terrified.

As the cell phone camera recording the protest panned across the police line, another familiar face had jumped out at Cas. Officer Jackson, their school resource officer, stood in the line of riot police, gas mask lifted so he could speak with the sheriff standing behind him.

Nodding, face grim, the officer had stepped back into formation, lowering his mask and lifting his shield.

And that is how Cas watched as the officer who had walked the halls of their school, greeted and laughed with students, attended all of their sports events, and been a constant presence during the COVID closure as he passed out meals to families in need in front of their school building, fired tear gas and rubber bullets at the students he was meant to protect.

Something had broken in Cas at the sight.

The same thoughts and questions that had lodged themselves in his mind as he watched the protest unfold tumble there now.

How could that officer do such a thing? How could that sheriff order it? He pitted his officers against their friends and neighbors. Against  _ children _ . He turned officers who are tasked with building trusting relationships between youth and law enforcement into  _ riot _ police and then set them against those same youths. How could he? How  _ dare _ he?

Not only was it cruel to the children and the community, what about the harm that had to do to his own officers? To place them in that position? To order them to deploy tear gas against  _ children _ ? He’d read on more than one occasion that oppressive systems dehumanize not only their victims, but those who sustain them as well. He doesn’t think he’d ever fully comprehended that statement until that night.

Because surely, to perpetuate such evil, one would have to distance themselves from their own humanity. Otherwise, how could a human soul bear such a thing?

Bitterly, he thinks now of Officer Jackson and the warm smiles he’d always had for the students of Shawnee Mission North. He thinks of him complimenting Kaia’s rainbow-hued heart-shaped cookie-grams at the GSA’s “Love is love” Valentine’s Day bake sale. He’d even bought one to take home to his wife.

He hopes the decision to fire on Kaia had been a difficult one.

Thinking of the images he’s seen in the past two weeks of police officers committing similar atrocities against even younger children, he’s terrified that maybe it wasn’t.

Cas can remember watching videos of the Civil Rights Movement in school as a child. He remembers watching white policemen spraying innocent Black children with fire hoses. Policemen who were  _ just following orders _ . Just doing their jobs. If there is one thing he’s certain of in all this, it’s that in ten years’ time, Claire is going to sit in a classroom, watching videos of police officers spraying children with tear gas and pepper spray.

And for what reason?

There had been multiple detours around the small section of road those protestors were occupying. They could have easily detoured traffic around them. Easily given the protestors time and space to grieve. What might have happened, he wonders now, if instead of calling in police in riot gear, the same officers who had walked with them had kneeled with them? Stayed and held vigil with them, for as long as they’d needed, instead of limiting them to a pathetic thirty-minute march?

Of course, if they had police departments willing to do that, they might not need the protests in the first place.

He’d sat that night, riveted to his computer screen until the cell phone’s battery had run out and the recording had cut off. He hadn’t caught sight of Kaia again and he’s been wracked with worry since. He’s hoping to see her at this evening’s virtual GSA meeting.

That meeting feels like the only thing keeping him going right now. He and Charlie had both been surprised when several of their GSA students had emailed them, asking if they could continue their weekly meetings even though school was out. They feel like they need the community and support more than ever right now and Cas wholeheartedly agrees.

School had ended for Kansas students the Friday before Memorial Day—the Friday before George Floyd’s murder. Not being able to see his students, talk to them, mourn with them, and of course, educate them in the days following such a watershed moment in their lives and their nation’s history has created an unrelenting ache inside of Cas.

While he knows that some of his students would have welcomed the kinds of difficult conversations their country needs to have right now, there are others who would not have, those being the students who probably need that education most of all. He imagines there would have been more than one stone-faced teen in their video sessions as he spoke to them about why all this is happening and the responsibility they all have in affecting change. And maybe they wouldn’t have been receptive to what he had to say, but at least they would have heard a voice outside of the social media echo chambers that are almost certainly their main source of news right now. It sickens him to think that there may have been kids he could have reached, could have at least planted the seed of justice in their minds, who are now being further jaded and hardened by the onslaught of baseless memes and false narratives he’s seen on Facebook.

He’s already reworked his syllabus for next year, looking at how he can embed more works by Black authors, both classic and modern texts, into a curriculum that focuses mainly on Eurocentric literature. He’s also reached out to Charlie, their school librarian Hannah, and the head of their history department Raphael, to ask about combining forces this summer to design more lessons and curriculum on critical reading and fact-checking of internet sources. They do a few lessons on it right now as a part of the research skills they work on with Hannah, but it’s not anywhere near enough. Social media is integrated into nearly every aspect of their students’ lives. Learning how to use it safely and thoughtfully needs to be an integrated part of their education.

It all seems too little, too late at this point though, especially as he thinks mournfully of this year’s senior class, heading out to navigate their changing world and having been woefully underprepared for such a challenge. He feels like he’s failed them. Failure is a feeling he grapples with quite a lot, of late.

The pleasant ding of his calendar reminder startles him out of his increasingly grim thoughts and he clicks on the link to connect him to his weekly Zoom session with Missouri. He really isn’t sure how he would manage to get through this quarantine without the benefits of teletherapy. Missouri has been instrumental in helping Cas cope with the isolation, fear, and anxiety he’s experienced over the past two months. 

Wincing, he realizes that even this is a product of his privilege. Millions of Americans still have nonexistent or woefully inadequate health care coverage, with Black Americans being affected far more profoundly than white. Many lack affordable access to even basic health care, making mental health services a financial impossibility. Cas is reminded once again how different his current situation might be if he hadn’t had a job that provided excellent health benefits, sick leave, and a leave donation program that were able to keep his family fed and sheltered during his lengthy recovery. 

As grateful as he may be for Missouri and the privilege to be able to adequately care for both his physical and mental well-being, he’s more reserved in his conversation with his therapist today than he has been since he first started seeing her in the weeks following his accident.

He knows he sounds stilted and uncomfortable, but how can he possibly unload his own feelings of guilt and inadequacy onto Missouri, a Black woman? He’d even chickened out and cancelled their session last week, which just adds to the shame he feels now. Cas can’t help but be aware that living where they do, most of Missouri’s clients are white. Surely, she’s had more than her fill of counseling and comforting blubbering white people over the past two weeks.

Fortunately, Missouri only lets him spend about fifteen minutes rambling blandly about the same inane quarantine woes they’ve been discussing for weeks now before ‘calling him on his bullshit,’ as Dean would say.

As Cas takes a sip of the coffee he’s started drinking with far too much cream and sugar (a direct contributor to his quarantine belly), Missouri begins ticking conversation points off on her fingers. “So, you’re feeling cut off from other people because of quarantine, exhausted from trying to work full time while chasing after that angelic daughter of yours, and you’re afraid to talk to me about anything that’s happened in the past two weeks because I’m Black.”

Choking on his coffee, Castiel glares at Missouri through his computer screen, who smiles smugly back at him. He most certainly had  _ not _ said anything about that last one, though he winces at how true it is.

“You did that on purpose,” he accuses, trying to fight the smile tugging at his lips and he dabs coffee from his chin.

“Did I?” she asks blithely. “It does seem to have shocked you out of whatever pod-persona you were trying on just now, so if I did, I’d say it was effective.”

He narrows his eyes again. “How long have you been waiting for me to take a sip of coffee?”

“Seven minutes,” Missouri answers promptly, eyes twinkling. “I was about to interrupt and suggest that you take a drink. Now,” she continues, leaning forward slightly, “while I appreciate your attempt at sensitivity, it’s more than a little counterproductive to our purpose here.”

Cas can feel himself blushing as Missouri goes on, “Up until now, you’ve seen me first and foremost as your therapist. Now, it’s suddenly become apparent that I’m Black, something you knew of course, but had probably never spent much time thinking about.”

Castiel nods. Of course he’d known that Missouri is Black, but he’d never before thought of the implications of that fact and the differences in their two experiences because of it.

No, he corrects himself. Difference created not because of Missouri’s race, but because of the systemic racism in their country that treats her and all other non-white people like second class citizens because of their race.

“What I actually am, Castiel, is a Black woman who is  _ also _ your therapist. That’s who I’ve always been. You just weren’t seeing the full picture before. You were focused on one small part and now you’re focusing on a different small part. You need to step back, take a look at the whole painting.”

“How do I do that?” he asks timidly.

“Well, by not avoiding uncomfortable feelings and conversations, for starters.”

Knowing she’s right, Cas forces himself to start talking, sharing the depressed funk he hasn’t been able to pull himself out of recently. It’s still difficult, giving voice to his feelings and fears and admitting to aspects of his own privilege he hadn’t fully acknowledged before the protests started.

Missouri, patient soul and talented therapist that she is, helps him along by bringing the conversation around to Dean, a topic about which Cas never lacks things to say.

Dean, of course, has been his usual brilliant and bold self throughout all of this. He’s been confronting racists head-on, both on social media and in person, focusing especially on the police brutality and escalation of violence at the protests spanning their country. While many of their friends and family have been supportive, his boyfriend has also lost several friends, like Roy, a firefighter “brother” whose stubborn insistence that he “backs the blue,  _ no matter what _ ,” has caused a rift between the two Cas thinks is unlikely to ever heal.

Dean has been adamant that those who work in law enforcement and emergency services should be more committed than anyone to rooting out racism in their ranks. He’s steadily lost popularity with those in his field who think like Roy, especially once he started arguing for the demilitarizing and restructuring of police forces. Fortunately, he has other friendships that have deepened and become stronger as a result of his activism, like his friendship with Victor, another fellow firefighter who had quickly become family when he started dating Jo last year.

After a particularly vehement debate between Dean and a (now former) Facebook friend, Victor had called Dean and thanked him for the arguments he had made.

“Dude,” Dean had answered, “you don’t need to thank me for not acting like a racist asshole.” Victor had laughed, but had then confessed to Dean that before he decided to become a firefighter, he’d wanted to join the police force. He’d always wanted to be a homicide detective, but even just a few weeks into his training, he’d found himself horrified by the degree of racism present in his fellow trainees and their instructors. It was an incredibly difficult decision for him, because he’s always believed it important to have Black representation in government and law enforcement. After several weeks of finding himself torn up inside at the end of every shift though, he finally had to admit that he couldn’t be one of them.

“I’ve always done things by the book,” he’d explained to Dean, “but it became clear pretty quickly they were reading from a different book, one that said, ‘for white eyes only.’”

Dean snorted. “Must’ve lost my copy.”

“I figured you just couldn’t read,” Victor had responded playfully and Dean had laughed and called him an asshole, his lost friendship with Roy not stinging quite so much as it had before.

Castiel has been in awe of Dean’s dedication and drive these past few weeks, wishing he could find that same fire within himself. While Dean seems to burn with a righteous fury at the injustice and ignorance surrounding them, Cas finds himself feeling mostly heartsick and saddened. He’s angry too, of course, but his anger feels less like the brilliant flame he sees in Dean and more like something smoldering underneath layer after layer of emotional detritus. He thinks a clean-burning rage might be a relief in comparison.

“Emotions aren’t rational, Castiel, and people often have widely varying emotional reactions to the same events. That doesn’t make any one person’s feelings wrong or lesser. It’s how you use those emotions and what you do with them that makes the difference. You’ve mentioned feeling sickened, saddened, guilty, depressed. I’d say these are all very natural reactions to the current situation, wouldn’t you?”

“They may be natural, Missouri,” Castiel tries to explain, “but they certainly aren’t  _ useful _ . I feel like they’re crushing me. It’s hard to get out of bed in the mornings some days, let alone actually  _ do _ anything that could make a difference.”

Missouri hums. “And you don’t think Dean faces these same kinds of internal struggles?”

Cas hesitates. He knows that’s not true. Dean has faced the same feelings of guilt, shame, and overwhelming sadness as Castiel, even more so in some respects. If he’s honest, he thinks that’s where some of Dean’s anger stems from. He recalls the conversation they’d had after watching the protest where they’d seen Kaia.

Cas had asked aloud how those officers could do that, how so many of them could turn on the people of their own city, convinced that they had the right of things. How could they just blindly follow such orders? And how could the ones who don’t engage in acts of brutality themselves look the other way and allow themselves to be complicit when their fellow officers do?

Dean had looked at him with a combination of guilt and sorrow on his face as he said quietly, “I know how, Cas. It doesn’t happen all at once. I mean, there are some truly evil SOBs wearing badges who were always gonna be that way, don’t get me wrong, but a lot of ‘em don’t start out that way.”

Swallowing, he’d kept going, “It starts with a joke sometimes. Someone makes a racist or bigoted joke and some of the guys laugh. You don’t laugh, but you don’t tell anyone either, because it’s just a joke, right? Surely, they don’t actually  _ mean  _ it. Then after a while the jokes turn into comments and you don’t report those either, because it’s just talk and you know if you say something, nothing will come of it anyway and then you’ll have lost the trust of your fellow officers for nothing. And if they don’t trust you, how can you trust them to have your back?”

Cas had reached over and squeezed Dean’s hand as his boyfriend’s eyes dropped to the bedspread beneath them.

“Then you start seeing things when you’re out in the field. Nothing obvious maybe, nothing you feel like you can report. Little things that on their own could just be someone having a bad day, but over time start to look like a pattern. You start asking yourself, ‘Was he a little too rough with that guy? Does she talk to everyone that way or just to people with skin darker than hers?’ And it’s not just the police, Cas. It happens everywhere. I don’t know at what point it changes from that to  _ this, _ ” he said, gesturing to the now blank laptop screen, “but I’m pretty sure that’s how it starts.”

Knowing his boyfriend well enough to know where his thoughts were headed, Cas gave his hand another squeeze. “Dean, sweetheart, that’s not you. You know that, right? That could never be you.”

“But what if it is, Cas? Those weren’t just hypothetical examples I gave you. How am I any better? I let myself get further down that slippery slope than I ever thought I would. What’s keeping me from sliding all the way to the bottom, with the rest of the garbage?”

“You are,” Cas had answered firmly. “You are by having this conversation right now. Yes, you were complicit in what those other firefighters or officers did and said and that was wrong, very wrong, but you’re doing the work now to climb back up that slope. We’ve all been complicit, Dean, on both an individual scale and large scale and we’re all going to have our own uphill battles to fight. I wish it were easier. I wish you could just sort people into neat little piles of good and evil, but unfortunately humans are too complex for that.” He’d smiled wryly. “The world isn’t split into good people and Death Eaters, after all.”

And wasn’t that just another kick in the teeth? It was only a few days after this conversation that Cas’ once-favorite author had made her unkind and incredibly unnecessary tweet attacking trans people. And during Pride month, no less. Why someone with such influence, even if they did hold such ignorant views, would feel the need to inject additional hurt and hate into a world already in agony is bewildering.

“But people in general aren’t particularly brave,” he’d said to Dean. “They aren’t like you. They can’t find the footholds in that mountain on their own and stand up to injustice, consequences be damned. That’s why we need systemic change. We need policies in place that protect all people equally and we need accountability to ensure those policies are enforced. We need policies that prevent officers from being ordered to tear gas children. We need accountability for officers who have engaged in brutality.”

“And are you imagining yourself as one of those who can’t find the footholds on their own?” How Missouri can manage to listen to an entire convoluted story and pick out the one sentence that cuts to the heart of Castiel’s insecurities every damn time continues to be a source of wonder to him. He’s still not sure if it’s a therapist thing or just a Missouri thing, but having one therapist able to look into his soul is quite enough. He’s not about to visit another to find out.

“I feel…lost,” he explains helplessly. “I feel like everyone else I know has picked a direction to go, a clear path to follow and do their part while I’m still wandering around the parking lot.”

His own social media pages haven’t been nearly as active as Dean’s, Castiel spending more time reading and researching than posting. The posts he does make are quieter than his boyfriend’s as well. As much as he’d like to scream a giant “Fuck you” at every racist, bigoted meme and repost to cross his feed, Castiel is constantly aware of his position as a public school teacher. He’s not naïve enough to think there’s even the slightest chance of anything he says on social media not getting back to his school administration. As an openly gay teacher in Kansas, he’s certain there’s more than one school board member who would love a reason to fire someone like him. Even without that ever-present threat hanging over his head though, since the moment Dean finally convinced him to open that damned Facebook account, Cas has instituted a strict policy of never saying anything online that he wouldn’t be proud to read aloud in front of any one of his classes.

So, instead of his beloved’s more…direct approach, Cas mostly reposts the words and messages of Black men and women, both within his own community and beyond. It’s not much, he knows, seeing as he has fewer than a hundred followers, but it’s something small he can do to hopefully help amplify Black voices. His own thoughts and words he saves for comments and one-on-one conversations, trying to find those tiny windows where people might be questioning, might be open to listening. He looks for places where he might be able to plant a seed.

His efforts seem particularly meager in comparison to those of their friends and family. Sam actually works in Kansas City as a civil rights attorney. He’s been working with the protests there, both with his firm and volunteering his own time, advising protestors and organizers of their rights and helping those planning to engage in civil disobedience prepare for potential arrest and the process that follows.

Jess has been working incredibly hard as well. Even though she’s already been putting in extra hours as a nurse due to the pandemic, she’s been volunteering at medic stations during the Kansas City protests. Cas knows that Sam is beside himself with worry, but he supports her anyway, both of them knowing just how important this movement is. The couple are also hoping to have a baby in the near future. Knowing that she won’t be able to be as physically involved in the protests while pregnant seems to drive Jess to be even more active now.

Charlie’s social media pages are as polite and well-mannered as Cas' own, but Cas knows full well those aren’t her  _ only _ accounts. She has any number of other accounts under various pseudonyms and though she hasn’t told Cas (and he’s afraid to ask) exactly what she’s been doing with her online presence, she did look extra smug on their Zoom call the other day when he told her about an article he’d read in which a local police officer was fired after the disgustingly racist Twitter account he anonymously manned in his off-hours was discovered.

Even Gabe is doing his part to support the revolution. His oftentimes chaotic neutral brother has been keeping his bakery open for carryout orders during the pandemic and is now offering free water and shelter to protestors. He’s also selling cookies emblazoned with the words “Fuck the police” and “#blacklivesmatter,” the proceeds of which he’s donating to  _ Black Lives Matter _ . His usual Pride themed cupcakes and cookies for the month of June are on offer as well, with those profits going to charities benefiting Black queer and trans people.

Every person who enters Gabe’s bakery also receives a flier advertising Black-owned local businesses. He’s even expanded the list to include other areas of Kansas and Missouri for businesses that are lacking in Kansas City.

Cas had been excited to see a children’s bookstore listed in St. Louis with online ordering. He and Dean already try to ensure that Claire has a diverse collection of toys and dolls in varying skin tones. When he’d perused her book collection, however, he’d found that the few human characters he came across were white.  _ Whose Knees Are These?  _ and  _ Whose Toes Are Those? _ feature families with Black and brown skin tones and will make excellent additions to her board book library. He’s also picked out a few more stories he’ll order for her once she’s old enough to not be an immediate danger to anything with paper pages.

Reciting all of his loved ones’ contributions to Missouri just seems to highlight the differences between their activities and his own and Castiel slumps against the wooden back of his dining room chair in defeat.

“It sounds like your friends and family have been quite active. And like you’re feeling as if your own actions don’t measure up. As if you’re falling short,” Missouri observes.

“Aren’t I?” he asks tiredly.

“I notice that Jess and Sam have been actively engaged with the protests, but Dean, Charlie, Gabe, they haven’t.”

“They’ve been doing other things, though.”

“Mmm,” Missouri agrees. “And are those things lesser? Or just different?”

“It’s not the same, Missouri. They’re  _ doing _ something. They’re making a difference and I don’t know if anything I’ve said or done has made a difference for even a single person.”

“Has it made a difference for you?”

Castiel stops, the mouth he’d already opened to protest snapping shut as he considers Missouri’s words.

“And what about Claire? Are the changes you’re making now going to make a difference for her and how she engages with the world?”

“Well yes, I suppose they will, eventually. But even if you count both me and Claire, we’re only two people.”

“But look at that, you’re already up to two. Already you’ve doubled your influence. And how many more people will both you and Claire influence as time goes on?”

“But it’s not enough,” he insists. “I’m a gay man, Missouri. I’ve been terrified of the prejudice and hate I knew I’d have to face for living the way I was born ever since I figured out that I liked boys instead of girls. But at least people can’t look at me and  _ see  _ my orientation and judge me for it before they’ve ever even spoken to me. And yet I’ve participated in a system that does just that to other people. I should be able to do more to try and make that right!”

“Mmm, yes. I can see the headlines now,” Missouri answers drily, waving a hand in front of her webcam. “Gay man from Kansas single-handedly solves institutionalized racism. Because clearly, it’s all about you.”

“I…No…That’s not…”

Finally shutting up, Cas thunks his head against his folded arms on the dining room table, before lifting it and looking shame-faced at Missouri where she sits on the other side of his computer screen, the barest hint of a smirk on her face.

“When you put it like that it sounds…incredibly arrogant, not to mention stupid,” he admits with a grimace.

Looking at him seriously, Missouri softens her tone, but not her words. “At the beginning of our session today, you told me that you didn’t want me to feel like you were asking me to comfort you. Now, I don’t know what about me has given you the impression that I would ever feel compelled to offer comfort where it’s not warranted, but I can assure you that I have no intention of doing so.

"You’ve experienced an unfair amount of pain in your life so far and while I’m saddened that you’re experiencing more now, I wouldn’t lift this burden from you if I could. As a therapist, I’m not one to advocate for avoiding uncomfortable feelings. I’m fairly certain you know this about me.”

Castiel can’t help but smile, because he does indeed know that all too well.

“And as a Black woman, I think it’s important that you sit with your discomfort and all of the other feelings you’re struggling with right now. I’m sure you’ve heard the expression that you can’t help lead an external revolution until you’ve led an internal one.”

He nods.

“It’s clear that you’re in the midst of that internal revolution and I don’t think you need me to tell you that it’s not going to be easy. That it  _ shouldn’t  _ be easy.”

He nods again, miserably, and Missouri raises an eyebrow.

“It’s also not meant to be a punishment, however. You don’t have to spend every moment of your life in misery in order to be committed to change. Learning how to live with these feelings and learn from them without letting them consume you is part of the journey. You won’t be any good to anyone if you spend all of your days drowning in guilt and neglecting your own mental health. Fortunately, you have an excellent therapist to help you with that.”

That pulls an unwilling chuckle from Cas. Missouri isn’t finished, however.

“I can’t and  _ won’t  _ tell you whether or not the things you’re doing are enough. That’s something you have to figure out for yourself. Only you can know what your abilities and limits are and how much thought and energy you’re committing to each action you take. I will tell you, however, that I don’t think you should underestimate the power of planting seeds. This world needs the loud voices, it’s true. It needs people who can shock those entrenched in their comfortable ways of life to attention. But it needs the quiet voices too. Ears that are ready to listen don’t need shouted words. I’d like to think there are some of those out there, even if they seem few and far between sometimes. You’ll never know which seeds will grow to bear fruit if you abandon the garden.”

As he ends his call with Missouri a few minutes later, Cas doesn’t necessarily feel  _ better,  _ but he does feel steadier somehow. All of his troubling feelings are still there. He can still feel his depression pulling at him, whispering in his ear that he’s failed before he’s even gotten started. But he does feel more ready than he was to find his footing and keep moving forward in his climb up that mountain.

* * *

Hours later, his session with Missouri is still running on a loop in his mind when he logs into Google Meets. Sitting in his and Dean’s bedroom so he doesn’t wake Claire, he plays the song  _ Glory  _ by John Legend in the background as he watches the faces of his and Charlie’s GSA students pop up one by one on his computer screen, including several students of color he hasn’t seen at their meetings previously. A protective feeling surges inside of him as he hopes they can find something of value in this group that has become a haven and a shelter to many of their peers.

Cas has to clap a hand over his mouth to stifle a relieved sob when Kaia appears on his screen. She returns a tiny, sad smile, as if she knows what he’s thinking. Charlie’s eyes are shining with tears as well and he knows she’s just as relieved and affected at the sight of the young woman.

The faces in front of him are somber, some wiping away tears as the powerful song plays on. Cas’ breath catches in his throat as he sees a name that is familiar to him from class, but certainly not from GSA meetings appear on his screen. Her video is off, but his monitor tells him that Mackenzie Hoffman has joined their meeting. Mackenzie was in his junior English class this year and she’s one of the students Cas had thought for certain would have been unhappy with his discussion of the protests were they still in school. Both her father and older brother are police officers.

Though she was unexpected here, her name is certainly not unwelcome to Cas’ eyes as he dares to hope she might be one of the “ready to listen” Missouri had referenced earlier today. That’s not necessarily true for the others in their group, however.

“Mr. M, are we letting just anyone join the group right now?” Jeremiah Turner, one of a very small number of Black LGBTQ students at their school, sneers as the last bars of the song fade into the background. “How do we know some people aren’t just joining to try and get information on protestors for the pigs?”

“I don’t think that’s a question for me or Charlie to answer,” Cas says calmly. As hopeful as he is about Mackenzie’s motive for joining them this evening, his first priority is making sure the members of this group, particularly their members of color, feel safe here. “This is your group. Your space. I think that’s a decision you all have the right to make.”

He waits with bated breath, making sure to keep his face neutral as the group debates. In the end, they decide to let all new members stay, but wisely opt to set up some new ground rules for their meetings. Cas watches in awe as this truly amazing group of young people work together to establish rules that will ensure all members are equally respected and protected. They agree that first and foremost, there will be no policing of marginalized voices or opinions, either by white members when issues of race are being discussed or by heterosexual or cisgender members when LGBTQ+ issues are being discussed. They also decide that while members can ask for clarification or education on certain topics, members of that marginalized group are under no obligation to answer. Instead the other members will answer when they can or Cas and Charlie will provide resources for those with questions to educate themselves.

When Katrice, one of their newly joined students of color says that she doesn’t mind answering respectful questions, the group decides that individual members can state at any point in the meeting that they would or would not be willing to answer questions during the meeting, with the understanding that this could change at any time during the current meeting or from one meeting to the next.

The ease with which these young people, these  _ children _ in the eyes of much of the world, are able to tackle conversations and topics that people twice their ages waste ridiculous amounts of time arguing over floors Cas. He’s immensely proud and humbled to be sitting amongst them.

The conversation turns then to talk of George Floyd’s murder. Of protests and police brutality. Eventually, some students share personal stories of the racism and discrimination they’ve experienced in their short lifetimes. Crying faces stare back at Cas from his computer screen and he does nothing to hide his own tears.

Throughout the meeting, Cas’ eyes keep traveling back to Mackenzie’s name on his screen, half expecting it to have disappeared. But as the meeting wraps up more than two hours later, her name is still there. She hasn’t said anything all evening, but he hopes she’s been listening.

Cas has just thanked everyone for joining and announced that they’ll meet again at the same time next week when he sees the little microphone next to her name unmute itself.

“Thank you for letting me stay,” says a small, obviously tear-thickened voice.

Looking straight into the camera, Jeremiah’s eyes hold both challenge and invitation as he nods once and says, “See you next week.”

Closing his laptop, Cas cries as Dean wraps strong arms around him from behind. Letting his boyfriend pull him into his chest, he thinks of Kaia standing strong and silent, staring into the eyes of the police about to tear gas her. Of Jeremiah’s bitter expression as he recounted the story of the  _ first _ time he was stopped by police for no apparent reason beyond being Black…at just ten years old. Of Mackenzie’s unexpected name blinking into life on his computer screen and holding there.

He thinks of the pain of healing. Of prodding the tender places. Of tearing open wounds and cleaning out the infection inside.

He thinks of footholds in the mountainside and the path that just might be starting to emerge.

It isn’t enough. It isn’t going to be enough. Not for a very long time. Maybe not ever. 

But he’ll do the work anyway. He’ll do the work he can do today while taking care of himself so he can  _ keep _ doing the work tomorrow.

And the next day.

And the days, weeks, and years after that.

Because he won’t abandon the garden.

And as he finally falls asleep that night, Castiel thinks of planting seeds.

**Author's Note:**

> ***Edit 6/28/2020: If you haven't seen the second panel on racial equality and justice [panel on racial equality and justice](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E55hzpjpSl4&feature=youtu.be&fbclid=IwAR2hW23_E37zzCy16HsqatfEjBtIqZ6Yf2vblqJhBfeA7tYOMt3ZPebraCE) featuring Daryl Davis, Rev. Deborah Johnson, Baratunde Thurston, and Brionna Jenkins which Misha hosted the other day, I strongly encourage you to watch it. The panelists address the blue wall of silence, police reform and defunding, and, well, pretty much everything else I touched on in this story with an authenticity and perspective that I, as a white person, lack.   
> I have also removed the link to Random Acts from these end notes, as it was pointed out to me that there are so many other Black organizations who are in need of support and have been doing work specifically targeting racism and racial equality and justice for far longer. If you are looking for ways to contribute financially, I encourage you to check out the suggestions on the the Black Lives Matter page linked below and to research local organizations and efforts in your area.***
> 
> As I said at the beginning, all events depicted in this story are true or based on real-life happenings. However, I do not live in Kansas and have no affiliation with or knowledge of the Shawnee Mission North school system. Events depicted in this story as happening in that locale are based on true stories from elsewhere in the US.  
> [Eyeseeme](https://www.eyeseeme.com/) is the children’s bookstore referenced in Gabe’s flier, located in St. Louis, Missouri. Their home page features a selection of anti-racisit books for readers of all ages.  
> [Whose Knees are These? ](https://www.eyeseeme.com/products/whose-knees-are-these?variant=6393223043) and [Whose Toes Are Those?](https://www.eyeseeme.com/products/whose-toes-are-those?_pos=1&_sid=880d7fe98&_ss=r) are both by author [Jabari Asim](http://jabariasim.org/).  
> If you’d like to find a Black-owned bookstore closer to home, you can check [this list](https://blog.libro.fm/black-owned-bookstores-to-support-right-now-and-always/), which is organized by state.  
> If you’ve never heard [Glory](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HUZOKvYcx_o) by Common and John Legend (or even if you have) give it a listen. It was featured on the soundtrack for the 2014 film Selma, which depicts the 1965 voting rights march from Selma to Montogmery, Alabama, led by Martin Luther King Jr.  
> You can learn more about Black Lives Matter and how to support the cause [here](https://blacklivesmatter.com/).  
> I know in my end notes I usually ask you to share a favorite line or moment from the story, a memory or anecdote from your own life, or occasionally, your favorite dessert recipes. I'd like to invite another kind of sharing in the little family following this fic has generated. If you have resources or messages regarding the protests, the anti-racist movement, education for allies, favorite books/songs/art by Black creatives (or if you ARE a Black/POC creative), whatever it may be... if you'd like a venue to share, please use mine.  
> If you would like to reblog this story, you can do so [here](https://a-mandala-rose.tumblr.com/post/621776783448113152/planting-seeds).


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